At 8:45 AM, the black Range Rover idled smoothly next to a coffee shop, directly across the street from the Fischer Group Headquarters.
Erica sat behind the steering wheel. Her hands rested lightly on the leather. Behind her dark sunglasses, her eyes were locked on the glass entrance of the building.
A black custom medical transport van pulled up to the curb. Colten was mechanically lowered onto the pavement. He had survived the crash, but his body was a shattered ruin. He was strapped into a high-tech motorized wheelchair, his right leg immobilized in an external steel fixation halo. Half his face was covered in thick, bloody gauze, and his left arm hung uselessly in a sling. Despite his catastrophic injuries, he forced a confident, arrogant smile for the paparazzi, trying to stabilize his company's stock amidst the divorce rumors.
Ivy stepped out next to him. She wore a loud, custom Chanel suit, clinging to Colten's arm. She posed for the flashing cameras, soaking in her new status as the queen of the empire.
Erica reached up and pressed the comms button on her earpiece.
The ORACLE System instantly hijacked the Range Rover's radio transmission module.
She had no intention of walking through the front doors. Brute force was for amateurs. She was going to detonate the building from the inside out.
At exactly 9:00 AM, the annual shareholder meeting commenced in the top-floor luxury boardroom.
Through her audio hack, Erica listened as the host, Marcus Fuller, droned on, reading a fabricated, highly inflated quarterly earnings report.
Colten sat at the head of the massive mahogany table. He smiled smugly, nodding at the wealthy investors.
Marcus clicked his remote to move to the next PowerPoint slide.
The massive LED screen covering the entire back wall of the boardroom violently flickered. A loud, screeching burst of static blasted through the ceiling speakers.
The colorful financial charts vanished. The screen went dead black.
A confused murmur rippled through the shareholders. Colten's smile dropped. He leaned into his microphone, his face flushing with annoyance. "Technical team, fix this immediately. What the hell is going on?"
Down on the street, inside the Range Rover, Erica tapped her index finger against the steering wheel.
"Showtime," she whispered.
The Trojan horse activated. It didn't just lock the boardroom screen; it hijacked the entire building's public address system.
Massive, blood-red letters slammed onto the black LED screen in the boardroom:
THE EMPEROR HAS NO CLOTHES.
The screen flashed. The high-definition dashcam video began to play.
The shareholders watched in stunned silence as a drunken Ivy Thorne plowed the car into a pedestrian. They watched Colten arrive, drag Erica's limp body into the driver's seat, and meticulously wipe Ivy's fingerprints off the steering wheel.
The boardroom erupted.
"This is murder!" an older shareholder screamed, jumping out of his leather chair and pointing at the screen.
Colten's face turned the color of ash. Sweat poured down his forehead, soaking into his bandages. He slammed his fists on the table, his eyes wide with panic.
"Turn it off!" Colten roared, spit flying from his mouth. "Security! Pull the damn plug!"
Two security guards rushed the wall, frantically ripping power cables out of the sockets. It didn't matter. The Trojan had locked the hardware's base drivers. The video kept playing on battery backup.
Ivy shrieked. She threw her hands over her face and tried to crawl under the table, but an angry investor shoved her back into her chair.
The video ended. The screen immediately transitioned to the financial documents.
Every dual contract, every offshore wire transfer, every stolen dollar was highlighted in bright yellow marker. The screen scrolled through the evidence, showing exactly how Colten had bled the shareholders dry.
A veteran Wall Street investor picked up his hot coffee and hurled the ceramic mug directly at Colten. It shattered against the table, splashing dark liquid over Colten's suit.
"You're a disgrace to this city!" the investor bellowed.
Erica wasn't done.
The ORACLE System bundled the entire presentation and blasted it to the encrypted tip lines of the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and five hundred other major media outlets.
Then, she aimed higher.
The system breached the server controlling Times Square. The massive Coca-Cola billboard went black. Suddenly, Colten's face and the words "FISCHER FRAUD" glared down at thousands of tourists and New Yorkers.
Twitter exploded. The hashtag FischerFraud hit number one worldwide in less than five minutes.
Back in the boardroom, the heavy oak doors were violently kicked open.
A squad of agents wearing FBI windbreakers stormed into the room. They held up a federal warrant.
"Colten Fischer," the lead agent barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. "You are under arrest for massive corporate fraud, obstruction of justice, and tampering with evidence."
Colten collapsed into his chair like a pile of wet rags. The cold steel handcuffs clicked loudly around his wrists. He stared blankly at the LED screen, completely broken.
Down on the street, Erica watched the FBI drag Colten out of the building.
Her lips curled into a cold, satisfied smirk. She shifted the Range Rover into drive and smoothly pulled away from the curb, disappearing into the city.
